


Hauntings

by JolinarJackson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolinarJackson/pseuds/JolinarJackson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John reigned himself in, reminding himself once again that Sherlock was very not interested and thus very unavailable. ”Didn't we have an agreement?” Sherlock went back to the book in his hands. ”Not to bring back more than two ghosts at a time?” - ”Not that one.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hauntings

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: after A Scandal in Belgravia  
> Warnings: Canon-typical violence and homicide, language  
> Contains: AU (Magical Realism), ghosts  
> Author's Note: Written for holmestice and camillo1978's sign-up. I ran with the magical AU idea and threw in a bit of romance as well. **The word 'heebs' as used in this story originates from the Latin word 'hebes', which means 'dim', 'sluggish' or 'stupid'**.  
>  Beta: thesmallhobbit, thank you!

“My friend,” Mike Stamford said, holding open one of the backdoors to St. Bartholomew's Hospital and carrying on the conversation they'd started on their short walk from the park, ”he's been looking for a flatmate for quite a while. I think you two could hit it off.” 

John leaned heavily on his cane while he passed through the door, bracing himself for the sharp smell that permeated hospitals. He knew many people didn't like it, even recoiled from it, but to him, it smelled like a home away from home. 

Or at least it used to. 

He still breathed in deeply and closed his eyes for a moment, letting memories from university and the army training pass with a faint smile, but he knew that he would never get the chance again to smell it on a daily basis. It was in the past.

”All right?” Mike asked with a friendly smile on his round face and John forced himself to smile back.

”Just fine,” he answered. ”Just ...” He shrugged with one shoulder. 

Mike nodded. ”No worries, I get it.”

John doubted that, but he wasn't about to argue.

”This way.” Mike led him down the corridor. 

They were close to the morgue, John noticed, remembering the layout of the bleak white corridors from his younger days. Close to the labs. ”Is he a pathologist?” he asked. 

Mike chuckled. ”No, he just … he hangs about quite a bit, carries out experiments on the bodies.” He pulled a grimace. ”That sounded really bad.” Clearing his throat, he continued, ”Anyway, he told me this morning that he’d found something on Baker Street and is now looking for someone to share.”

”Central London?” John asked, impressed. A ball of dread settled in his stomach and he slowed his steps a bit. ”I don't think I can afford that even when I share.”

Mike gave him a reassuring smile. ”He isn't bothered about money.”

John stopped dead. ”Mike.” He rubbed his forehead, regretting not asking for more information sooner. With a sigh, he muttered, ”This isn't a good idea.”

Mike's eyes widened and he glanced down the corridor as if he expected his friend to round the corner any moment. Some strands of his receding dark hair shimmered silvery in the neon lights. John hadn't noticed in the park just how much they'd both aged since they'd last seen each other. Really, he was too old to go out looking for a flatmate anyway, wasn't he? 

Mike buried his hands in his coat pockets and fixed John with a pleading stare. ”You haven't even met him yet.”

John's hand tightened around the cane. ”He obviously doesn't need anyone living with him if he's not bothered about money. And I won't live off someone else's charity.”

Mike sighed. ”John, this isn't what I was thinking when I heard you were looking for a place.”

”What _did_ you mean?”

”That you can get out of that dreaded bedsit and take your time looking for a job in London without a flatmate egging you on for money. Really, it's one of the best things about him. He doesn't care about money.”

John raised his eyebrows, not convinced.

Mike stepped closer again. ”Listen, he needs you just as much as you need him.”

”How so?”

”He's had some … problems. His brother doesn't want him living alone and he will only get access to his trust with an eligible flatmate in tow.” 

John took a deep breath, thinking that through, before concluding, ”So either his brother is a complete control freak or he himself is a complete nutter.”

Mike laughed, clapping his shoulder. ”Come on, at least introduce yourself. I think you two would get along just fine.” He turned to walk on but paused and turned back around. ”John, you have no problem with supernatural powers, do you?” 

John shook his head slowly. He didn't but like every other sensible non-Gifted, he was cautious about them.

”Good,” Mike said, nodding. He pressed his lips together and then gave a weak smile. ”'Cause he's a necromancer.”

***

Sherlock Holmes was stunning. 

It had been a while since John had looked at a bloke and thought that – the last time had been in the army and so long ago – but with this new potential flatmate, it was true. He was tall, dark-haired and pale-eyed, with an aristocratic aura about him that made John think of the Jane Austen novels he'd had to read in school. 

John didn't know what he had expected, but he had just never met a necromancer before, and seeing one intently bent over a microscope and taking notes wasn't what he had had in mind when he thought of this particularly dark Gift. It took him a minute to realise that the young man standing next to Sherlock was in fact a ghost – another first-timer for John. He only noticed the light blurring around the young man's frame because he caught a glimpse of the knife wound in his stomach. 

Somehow, all that was only half as scary as he'd thought. He liked Sherlock. 

He also liked the flat instantly, its cramped and cluttered cosiness screamed life in a way John had missed in his sad neutral bedsit. He agreed to sign the lease, even when his new and rather elderly landlady Mrs. Hudson muttered, “Just make sure you know what you're getting into. All that ghost business just isn't right. If Sherlock wouldn’t be such a nice boy, I wouldn't let him set foot into this house. Leave the dead in their graves, is what I always say.” 

His therapist Ella didn't agree with John's choice for a flatmate. Sherlock Holmes – an attractive necromancer working as a consulting detective for Scotland Yard who had John tag along solving crimes – was everything she thought John didn't need right now. Sherlock Holmes was clearly mad and a bad influence. 

John fired her.

***

John thought of himself as being a tolerant bloke. Really. He was uncomplicated. Even the discipline and order the military had ingrained into him hadn't changed that. He could live with dirty dishes. He had no problem with newspapers spread over the floor like a carpet for days on end. He didn't protest the body parts in his fridge – not even the liver leaking into the lasagne. Well, he didn't protest them too much. Maybe he bemoaned the loss of proper hygiene a bit but they ate out of cartons most of the time anyway. 

Point was, he pretended to be cross with Sherlock way more often than he actually was cross. It was a matter of showing the great tit that he wouldn't take everything he threw at him lying down without defending himself. 

It was a matter of pride. 

As was not being stared at by a bloke he didn't know when he left the shower. 

John yelped and pulled the curtain to cover himself again. ”Who the hell are you?!”

The bloke stared at him. He was dark-haired and seemed listless somehow, almost … catatonic.

John stared right back at him. ”Well?” 

The bloke turned away – his edges blurring with the movement – and left, giving John a perfect view of a hole the size of a fist in the back of his head. 

John sighed and closed his eyes. ”Sherlock!” He climbed out of the bath. No answer was forthcoming. ”Sherlock, one of them got away again!” He wrapped himself in his robe and left the bathroom, heading for the lounge. 

Sherlock looked up at him from where he'd folded his long body into the armchair in a position that looked painful. His pale blue eyes travelled from John's head to his feet and back again before he arched one eyebrow. ”I'm aware.”

John put his hands on his hips and suddenly wished he'd taken the time to get dressed. Sherlock's eyes seemed to see past any barriers anyway, he really didn't need to actually _be_ close to naked. John reigned himself in, reminding himself once again that Sherlock was _very not interested_ and thus _very unavailable_. ”Didn't we have an agreement?”

Sherlock went back to the book in his hands. ”Not to bring back more than two ghosts at a time?”

”Not that one.”

”Not to let them into your bedroom, especially at night and _very_ especially when you're entertaining?”

”Not that one either.” John rolled his eyes. “And thanks for calling it 'entertaining', that makes for so much dignity.”

There was a smirk lingering on the corner of Sherlock's lips. ”From what I heard, dignity is not the point.”

”You are not supposed to let them run free,” John said quickly before his thoughts could stray further towards dangerous territory. 

Sherlock glanced at the ghost who was standing by the fireplace. ”He isn't doing any harm.”

”He stared at me.”

”He can't see you.”

”Not the point.”

Sherlock frowned. ”I don't understand.”

”It _felt_ like he was looking at me.”

”Though,” Sherlock drawled in that annoying way he got into sometimes, “he didn't.”

John sighed and closed his eyes, resting his forehead in one of his hands and brushing through his short hair. It was almost dry now and would certainly look a mess. ”Okay,” he said, ”he didn't. I was foolish and you were right.”

”Appreciated,” Sherlock answered, either missing the sarcasm (possible) or ignoring it (very possible). 

John bristled and watched as Sherlock got back to his book. Then he looked at the ghost. ”Are you just going to let him stand there?”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. ”I can hardly offer him tea.”

”If you don't need him anymore, make him disappear.”

Sherlock looked affronted. ”Necromancy isn't a magic act, John.” 

”He's creeping me out.”

Sherlock looked at the ghost who just stared at him. ”He's fine.”

”Sherlock!”

”Oh, fine! All right!” 

The ghost vanished into thin air. 

Sherlock glared at John. ”Happy?” 

”Ecstatic!” John answered. 

Muttering sullenly, Sherlock turned his attention back to his book, and John went to get dressed. Sherlock was still pouting when he returned ten minutes later.

”So, Chinese?” John asked. 

Sherlock didn't answer, but John hadn't expected him to.

”Yeah, I think it's a great idea, too.”

Sherlock ignored him and John started to feel a little bad about their argument. 

”Sherlock,” he said, ”you know that I don't have a problem with that whole seeing ghost thing, right? I don't judge supernatural powers.”

Sherlock's gaze didn't rise from the book while he spat, ”I'm not one of your gullible patients freaked out about discovering they're _abnormal_ , John, so please do shut up.”

John decided that ignoring the snide remark would be better for him. ”You know I would never call it abnormal. I have no problem with your kind. I served with vampires, telepaths and tricksters. It's just …” He sighed. “Why are there always dead people hanging around in our flat?“

Sherlock peeked at him from under unruly curls. “Not dead, murdered.“

“The difference being?“

“About 100% of allure.“

John frowned. ”Sherlock, I know you need them for the cases, but they're _always_ here.”

”I'm _always_ working.”

”This isn't the first time I caught one just standing there while you were doing something completely different.” 

Sherlock didn't answer.

”Sherlock-”

”Chinese sounds good.”

And that was that.

***

It couldn't have gone well forever, of course. John had known that. At some point, his suppressed feelings for his flatmate would have to take over and then he would be in big trouble. He'd been lucky so far, though. He hadn't expected one of their chases on foot to be the trigger. It wasn't the first suspect they were chasing and it would certainly not be the last but something got the better of John after they'd handed the man over to the police and were walking down an alley towards Baker Street, still panting from exertion and high on adrenaline. 

It was instinct, a spur of the moment decision. John didn't really think about it until his lips were on Sherlock's and his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, pressing him back into a wall and himself closer. 

There was a moment of shock, a second of stiffness, but then Sherlock melted against him and responded by clutching him closer, opening his mouth and slipping his tongue against John's and it was wonderful.

Then Sherlock pushed him back, staring at him. Stunned. 

A shadow moved into the light of the street lamp next to them and John turned to see, ready to fight should somebody try to cause trouble … the old woman clutching a handbag was blurrier than other ghosts John had seen, weaker, almost … insecure. 

He looked back at Sherlock, who licked his lips and said, ”Really, John.” Then he turned and walked away. 

***

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, staring with intense concentration at the young, blonde woman dressed in a waitress outfit sitting opposite him in John's chair. 

John wrapped both hands around his mug of tea and approached slowly. He'd waited three days. Three days during which Sherlock had ignored what had happened – had ignored John altogether, really – and John had had enough time to think. He wasn't exactly pining to talk about it. That wasn't it at all. He just wanted to clear the air and had concluded this could end in two possible ways; either Sherlock would put him in his place and once again remind him how very not interested he was in anything resembling romance or Sherlock would admit to having kissed John back quite eagerly, even if only for a moment, and they'd do something about it. 

While favouring the latter, John had steeled himself to be fine with either outcome. 

He cleared his throat. ”Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn't even look at him. ”There's space on the couch.”

”What?” John asked, confused.

”To sit. For you,” Sherlock said, still not taking his eyes off the ghost in John's chair. ”You also have a perfectly comfortable chair in your room if her presence is bothering you so much.” He quirked a triumphant smile at the ghost. ”You didn't commit suicide,” he said. ”Your sister was right.”

John sighed. ”Sherlock, can we talk?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, straightening his suit jacket with a tug. ”I'm working.”

”You always say that.”

Sherlock sighed and glanced at him, then he waved his hand. ”Fine.”

John looked at the ghost pointedly.

”For God's sake!” Sherlock snapped. ”She's dead. Not hearing, not seeing, not saying anything. She doesn't even realise we're here, so would you just get over your heebs hang-ups and ignore her?”

That had stung. John stared at him in disbelief. ”Heebs?”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at him. 

”Did you actually just say that?” John asked, even though he knew that Sherlock never said anything he didn't mean.

”I hate repetition.”

John stepped closer. ”You're aware it's an extremely derogatory word for people without powers, then?”

”I wouldn't have used it in this context otherwise,” Sherlock answered. ”Now, what is so important?”

John's hands around the mug tightened but he took a breath to calm himself. ”I'd like to talk about what happened.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair and his fingers tapped the armrest, the only nervous habit John had noticed on Sherlock up until now. ”Can you be any more precise?”

”The kiss!” John answered heatedly.

Sherlock looked at him, finally, his fingers stopping the tapping. ”I'm aware of your bisexual tendencies and you know that I'm not interested in romantic entanglements. You initiated, I stopped.”

”After participating,” John replied. 

”It's my participation you want to talk about?”

”Yes.” 

Sherlock got up, pushing his hands in his trouser pockets. ”John, you know that I don't … indulge.”

John raised his eyebrows. ”And _you_ know that I'm not gay.”

”The point being?”

”Just because you usually don't do it, doesn't mean you _never_ do it.”

Sherlock ducked his head, then looked off to the side, at the ghost. ”Fine, let me be clear: While I'm flattered by your offer, I have to decline.”

”Wow,” John said. ”That was formal.”

”There are times where you just know it wouldn't work. Consider it a lesson learned.” Sherlock looked at him with an inscrutable expression for a long moment, then he took a deep breath and brushed one hand through his tousled dark hair. ”If this is going to be a problem between us, maybe we should reconsider our living arrangements.”

John felt his heart skip a bit. ”Do you _want_ to reconsider our living arrangements?”

Sherlock sat down, focusing on the ghost again. ”That's entirely up to you.”

”So what?” John asked, incredulous. ”You wouldn't care if I left?”

Sherlock stared at the ghost and didn't answer. The silence stretched.

Finally, John nodded curtly. ”Right,” he said. ”Right.”

***

Angelo's was usually not this busy on a Wednesday night. Still, John had been able to snag a table in the corner at the window, where he could ignore the families and couples and instead watch people passing by. Unasked, Angelo had served John his favourites and he seemed to have noticed that John wasn't in the mood to chat, leaving him alone and instead entertaining the other guests. 

John needed a bit of time to think. 

He wasn't insecure enough to take Sherlock's words all too seriously. He knew that Sherlock liked him – or at least didn't dislike him as much as he did some other people. Had Sherlock really wanted him to move out, he would have told him so. 

No, John wondered about Sherlock's denial. John hadn't imagined Sherlock returning the kiss, he just hadn't. And Sherlock wasn't usually one to hold back when he wanted something. Now, John didn't know what to do, whether he should ignore that it had ever happened or dig deeper. Somehow, he felt the need to help Sherlock face whatever demons were haunting him. He also knew, though, that helping Sherlock was a tricky and dangerous thing that could damage more than it had the potential to repair. 

John's thoughts were interrupted halfway through his meal when Mycroft slid into the chair opposite. He sighed as if John had insisted he'd come and Mycroft had walked five miles in the rain without an umbrella to reach him, just to discover that nothing was amiss. 

Quite used to this attitude as well as the unexpected visits from Sherlock's brother by now, John just folded his hands on the table and released a breath. ”Your brother is a tit.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, one if his hands straightening the knot of his red tie. He looked way too posh for this kind of restaurant. ”I wouldn't have described it that way but the sentiment fits.” Angelo approached with a wide smile, but Mycroft looked him up and down once and then grimaced. ”No, thank you. I'm not hungry.”

John and Angelo exchanged a glance and John shrugged his shoulders. Angelo glared at Mycroft and left, muttering to himself. John watched him go and then turned back to Mycroft. ”For your information,” he said, ”this is my favourite Italian place so whatever conclusions you just drew about the kitchen, I don't want to hear them.” 

”Fine,” Mycroft answered. ”Let's talk about my brother instead. It's danger night.”

John continued eating. ”Sherlock and I had a small argument, but I don't think we're facing danger night territory.”

”I must wonder whether you know my brother at all,” Mycroft replied, studying his nails for a moment. ”He is such a … fragile soul.”

John snorted. ”Fragile?”

Mycroft smiled indulgently at him. Sometimes, it seemed like that was the only smile John could get from him. ”Sherlock loves his ghosts, surely you've noticed that. He summons them even when he doesn't need them. They keep him … company.”

John nodded. ”I've noticed.”

”Do you happen to know why he prefers their presence to the presence of an actual breathing human being?” 

John smirked. ”Why don't you tell me?”

”Ghosts don't judge,” Mycroft answered. ”Ghosts also don't leave unless released. They are reliable. A treat humans only very rarely share.” He got up, straightening his already impeccable suit in the process. ”Did you read the Simon Chase novels, John? I hear they are quite interesting. Especially the first one.”

With that clue, he left.

***

“Simon Chase,” John said, tapping the name into search engine of his laptop. He'd heard about the novels, of course, and he detested them simply out of principle. While Gifted people were integrated into most societies these days, critics were never far away and most of them read the novels about private detective Simon Chase. In John's opinion, the books were nothing but racist blubbering about the dangers Gifted could bring. He'd never touched one of the books, instead deeming them way too successful. 

Movement at the door caught his eye and he raised his eyebrows at the old man with the ugly head wound. ”Do you mind?” He knew that ghosts couldn't hear or see. They didn't interact with the world. Nevertheless, when the bloke turned and floated away, John muttered “Ta so much”. The first link that came up looked promising and he waited impatiently while the website of the man who'd created Simon Chase opened. 

”Victor Trevor,” he muttered, staring at the picture of a good-looking blond man in his mid-thirties. The header next to the picture caught his eyes next. 

_Victor Trevor introduces his first non-fiction book **The Truth Behind – Why Supernatural Powers Are More Dangerous Than The Government Wants You To Believe**_

Instinctively, John said, ”Wanker.” He scrolled through several news items on the page, finally finding a link to the list of the novels that had made Trevor rich. All of them were titled _Simon Chase_ with varying sub-titles. He scrolled down until he reached the end of the list showing him the cover of the first book in the series. 

He stared at the picture for a long, breathless moment. Not because of the man who apparently was supposed to represent Simon Chase – a blond man with a grim smile and a gun – but because of the other man who was apparently the antagonist, half-hidden in shadows. He was tall, dark-haired and had bright blue eyes, his hands buried in the pockets of his dark coat sullenly, his gaze riveted on Chase. 

The title read _Dead Eyes_. 

And there was no mistaking that this was Sherlock.

***

John shoved the microscope aside, earning himself a glare from Sherlock and no reaction at all from the woman with the choke marks around her neck sitting at the opposite side of the kitchen table. John ignored the angry look and instead set the laptop down in front of Sherlock, pointing at the book cover. ”So?” he asked. 

Sherlock looked at the picture for a long moment, then his shoulders hunched and he sighed. ”Mycroft.” He slid the laptop closed. ”Telepathic git never knew how to keep out of my life.” 

Sherlock got up and wrapped his blue robe tighter around himself, before walking into the lounge and dropping into his armchair. From there, he glared at the skull on the mantle. 

”Simon Chase, Sherlock,” John said, following him. ”Somehow, you forgot to mention that you're his bloody arch enemy.”

”I'm not,” Sherlock replied.

”Well, someone looking like you is.”

Sherlock scoffed. ”They used an old picture of me to draw that book cover. Without a doubt Victor's idea.”

John crossed his arms. ”Tell me what the story is, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his fingers tapping the armrest. ”I knew Victor Trevor.”

”I gathered that.”

”When he wasn't a published author. In university.”

”Okay,” John said. Sherlock's face twisted in displeasure, his fingers tapping faster, his legs shifting. A faint blush stained his pale cheeks … and John knew. ”You slept with him.”

Sherlock's eyes flickered to catch John's for just a second, then he looked away again, his lips pressed together thinly. 

John nodded in understanding. ”And he betrayed you.”

”It's ancient history,” Sherlock replied defensively.

”Obviously not.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. ”Victor was looking for … inspiration. To write a book about a private detective with supernatural powers who would help chase other Gifted people down who were misusing those powers. The original idea started out with Chase having a partner – a necromancer.” 

John sat in his own chair, leaning forward attentively. ”How did he become a private detective without supernatural powers pretty much killing every Gifted person he meets while chasing down a murderous necromancer who killed his family?”

Sherlock's smile was brittle. ”I guess that idea held more appeal.”

”But you were a couple,” John said. ”Why would he-”

”Please, John,” Sherlock said, scoffing. ”Simon Chase was never supposed to be a good guy.”

”But Victor made you believe he was. And you ...”

Sherlock cleared his throat. ”I … showed him our world.” He shook his head. ”The books are tremendously realistic. The sub-culture of Gifted people living their lives among non-Gifted people is described perfectly. Every meeting point, every support group and every club. He changed names, because I think not even he would be bold enough to write down what he saw with me under its real name, but everything he knows about my world, he got from me.”

”And you didn't see his intentions until it was too late.” John stared at him with wide eyes. ”You missed the clues?!” 

Sherlock blushed again and avoided John's eyes. ”I guess it's true what they say – attraction blinds you.”

John swallowed and got up. ”Sherlock, that is awful.”

”I'm not asking for pity.” Sherlock's voice and eyes were hard, but when John looked closer, he could see it lingering just beyond the façade – fragility.

He stepped closer. ”This is sympathy.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

John leaned down, bracing his hands on the armchair's backrest either side of Sherlock's head. ”You're carrying emotional baggage.” He smiled. ”That's so ... ordinary, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock stared into his eyes. John leaned even closer. Close enough to smell Sherlock's fancy aftershave and the stuff he put into his hair. Close enough to feel Sherlock's breath on his lips. 

A silvery movement out of the corner of John's eye startled him and he straightened to look at the ghost. 

Sherlock got up hastily, pushing John out of the way. ”I believe that was the explanation you were looking for. If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my experiment.”

John let him go, staring at the ghost. He smiled when an idea occurred to him. A thought that sounded ridiculous in the first moment, but then made sense, considering who he was dealing with. 

Mycroft hadn't been entirely right for once. 

He turned to the kitchen to see Sherlock positioned at the microscope again. The ghost slid back towards the table to take her place opposite Sherlock, like a silent guardian. 

John took a deep breath. ”Rather clumsy, don't you think?”

”Your flirtation? I agree,” Sherlock answered, taking a note.

”No, using the ghosts to keep me away. To keep everyone away, really.”

Sherlock's hand paused for just one second, then he continued writing.

”Don't think I haven't caught on,” John continued, walking towards him slowly. ”You always keep one close when we're at crime scenes because you know it freaks Donovan and Anderson out. Lestrade told me he bought you a pint once and you turned up with two of them in tow, emptying the pub faster than anything else could have done. 'I took the hint', he said to me.”

Sherlock pulled an annoyed grimace at his notebook. ”And now it's your turn to take it.”

John ignored him. ”Even Adler got a ghost. Except … there was no ghost when we kissed for the first time,” he said. ”Only after. And she was rather weak.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. ”That doesn't mean a thing.”

”I think it does. It was just you and me in that alley, kissing, until you stopped it. And after that, she appeared to ruin the moment or scare me away or maybe … to remind you.”

”Of my momentary lapse in judgement?”

John smiled. ”You don't have those.”

”Simon Chase says I do.”

”Simon Chase is wrong.” John cleared his throat. ”And he would be a bigger success at what he does if he'd work together with that necromancer instead of running after him with a gun all the time. Of course, that would require said necromancer to stop running away from him.”

Sherlock frowned. ”Are you Simon Chase in that metaphor? I dread to think what the gun represents.”

John chuckled. ”I'm not going to pretend I like ghosts hanging about the flat all the time because I don't. That doesn't mean I don't like you or that I resent your Gift.” Before Sherlock could even utter an answer, John leaned in to place a firm kiss on his lips. It was chaste but sure.

When they parted, Sherlock was still frowning. ”You seem awfully sure of the fact that I return your interest simply based on a kiss that wasn't interrupted by a ghost.” 

”I also base it on the fact that you used the ghosts to cock-block me every chance you got,” John answered. “You have no idea how hard it is to get another chance after your flatmate's ghosts interrupted you and your girlfriend in bed.”

Sherlock smirked. ”You could have moved out.”

”I could've.” John brushed one hand through Sherlock's hair. ”That was _your_ hint by the way.” He smiled and stepped away towards the stove to put the kettle on. ”So, how about dinner?”

”Dinner?” 

”A date.”

Sherlock scoffed. ”Dates are tedious.”

”Such a romantic,” John replied. ”We're still going to do this properly. Angelo's, tonight, let's say around seven.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, as if he wasn't sure what to say. Finally, he replied, ”I could say no.”

”You already said yes,” John answered, looking at the chair the ghost had occupied just a few minutes ago. 

It was empty.

 

END  
11/15


End file.
